


Killing Time

by levitatethis



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Reality, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-17
Updated: 2010-05-17
Packaged: 2017-10-09 12:50:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levitatethis/pseuds/levitatethis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set years in the future Mohinder and Sylar are working together and have to pass the time while on a stakeout for a destructive Special.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Killing Time

The shuffling of papers distracts Sylar's investigative gaze from outside the driver's seat window to the passenger seat. Mohinder has the folder out again, flipping over pages of information to examine the photograph of their latest mark.

"The picture hasn't changed since the last five times you checked it," Sylar comments tiredly.

Mohinder ignores Sylar and, holding the photograph gingerly with his fingers along the edges, he peers closely at the gentleman, Anton Yilger, looking back. A distinguished face marked by the fine lines that come of a life that has earned its wear and tear is framed by salt and pepper hair that draws attention to the hollowed cheeks and strong jaw. Exchanging the photograph for another one in the file Mohinder examines the younger version of the same man, minus the lines but still the ever striking face, no longer adorned by long hair but accented by the buzz cut from his Neo-Nazi days.

Without glancing up Mohinder asks, "You're certain he's still in there?"

Sylar gives him a 'you've got to be kidding me' face, but without Mohinder looking at him to acknowledge it he takes a deep breath and responds.

"When I entered the pub I headed to the bar and ordered a pint. There is a mirror behind the bar that runs the length of the wall. I saw his reflection and was able to zone in on his heartbeat—,"

"You know it was his?" Mohinder interrupts, looking up questioningly at Sylar.

"He has a murmur. I can still hear it," Sylar states enunciating each word to reaffirm his position.

Mohinder reads between the lines of his tone.

"I'm not trying to question your ability or your capability of doing your job. I just don't want this guy to give us the slip again—,"

Mohinder cuts himself short, not wanting to get into another argument over the last time they tried to follow Anton. Sylar sucks in his breath to keep himself from making any disparaging remarks regarding their stakeout two days before. Both had contributed to losing Anton's position, but that had not stopped either of them from trying to place the bulk of the blame on the other.

Harsh words aside they are back on track, waiting outside a local area pub in Berlin, for the man to reemerge into the darkness.

They settle into a tense silence with Sylar redirecting his eyes to the front of the pub while Mohinder closes the file and places it back in the bag at his feet. This time it is Sylar's quiet sigh that brings Mohinder's unfocused gaze away from the side view mirror over to the driver's seat.

"Tired?" asks Mohinder.

"Amongst other things," Sylar vaguely replies, still staring at the pub.

Thinking that Sylar is referring to their current conversation Mohinder says, "Look I didn't mean to imply—,"

"I know," Sylar coldly cuts him off.

The unintentional reprimand silences Mohinder momentarily and Sylar inwardly cringes at the callousness of his own voice.

Looking over at Mohinder, Sylar says, "I know you're worried, but we'll get this guy. I need you to…"

The pause highlights the oddness of the request on Sylar's lips for a myriad of reasons, but with it so unavoidable now there seems little point in trying to plead ignorance.

"Trust you?" Mohinder finishes the request and the trace of humour in the inflection of his words brings a quick smile to Sylar's otherwise serious face.

"Yes—as much as that is it ask at times."

Saying nothing at first Mohinder breaks their look to take in the moderately busy street around them. Filled with nighttime revelers, they all look to be trying to shake off the excruciating workweek while simultaneously welcoming the long awaited weekend. Part exhausted demeanors with heavy steps, part bright eyes and laughing smiles; Mohinder feels hypnotized by the simplicity of their lives compared to his.

"I would think our being here is a sign of my trust—for now," Mohinder shares, drawing his right hand through his hair and lightly scratching through his curls before resting his arm against the door frame.

"Fair enough," Sylar admits watching Mohinder and then looking back to the pub. "I have to admit I can't wait to see how his ability works—animication was it?—moving like an animal—the graceful fluidity, the agility to move around nearly undetected, climbing buildings…If he manifested as young as his file seems to indicate he must have been a handful as a kid. My mom would have probably tied me down."

Caught off guard at the sharing of such thoughts Mohinder looks wide eyed at Sylar who, in turn, clears his throat and clarifies, "I don't mean that in an abusive way—,"

"It's not that," Mohinder interrupts. "It's just…you don't talk about your parents…at all."

Sylar pauses and then answers, "There's nothing really to say."

He hopes that Mohinder cannot hear the caution in his voice regarding the touchy issue. It is not so much that he does not want to share his buried past with Mohinder as much as it is his worry that knowing it will change the way Mohinder thinks of him. Having Mohinder dislike him, hate him even, but still be fascinated with Sylar is far more acceptable a burden to carry than having Mohinder look down on and laugh at Gabriel.

"Of course your parents were nothing. I mean look at how boring and insignificant you turned out," Mohinder's sarcastic words cut through Sylar's thoughts.

Sylar ponders if lies are worth their weight right now. Mohinder is eyeing him, urging him with interest. Given what they have already been through, the effort required to keep this information guarded seems far beyond a necessity. Sylar wonders if this is the time, the chance, to walk those tentative steps into forward. He has never feared risks before, but this one presents the first time once has made him feel so nervous.

It is Mohinder's patient countenance in the moment that encourages Sylar to make a final decision.

Before he can talk himself out of it, Sylar says, "My mom was very…high maintenance in her religiousness. She lived and breathed God and salvation. She was very much ruled by it. But where she showed a frailty despite her devotion, my dad was more firm, if less outspoken about it—if that makes any sense?"

Mohinder nods a silent yes and Sylar continues.

"My dad was strong in his beliefs, but it was most apparent in what he did not say, in the way he carried himself."

"Almost opposite from your mother?" Mohinder questions.

"In a way yes," Sylar agrees. "Mom was very hands on with how she raised me, telling me how to be a good boy, how to grow up to be a virtuous man. Dad taught through his own example."

Sylar notices the furrowed brow on Mohinder's face and worries he is detailing an unfair account of his family life. Not waiting for Mohinder to ask a probing question, Sylar keeps speaking.

"It's not that my childhood wasn't good it was just a bit…stifling. Mom was overprotective, worrying about the corruptible world outside the apartment and dad…he was usually at the shop. For years I thought it was because business was booming and he couldn't tear himself away from all the work. But when I started working there I realized it was more a place for him to retreat into himself."

It is the most Sylar has ever shared with anyone and he begins to feel a strange combination of relief and uncertainty. His concern is set aside when Mohinder finally speaks.

"Was working at the shop your father's idea or yours?"

Not the question Sylar is expecting, he raises an eyebrow at Mohinder.

"Your intuitive aptitude," Mohinder clarifies, "certainly would have been a remarkable asset as a watchmaker, particularly of classical timepieces. Did you recognize that in yourself? Did your father see it? Or was working as a watchmaker simply an expectation of a father for his son?"

"I…uh—I hadn't really thought about it," Sylar confesses. "Maybe it was a bit of everything."

Anticipating Mohinder's next question Sylar adds, "I have no idea if my dad had any ability. Though to be fair during the last few years I had come to resent the mundane reality of my life so much that even at the shop I tuned him out and then…when I was eighteen he died—heart attack—in time to keep me from going to university, in time to keep me bound to the shop."

There is no mistaking the bitterness that encapsulates Sylar's words or the tinge of regret he still feels for what was thrust upon him all those years before. As much as he had come to accept the solitary joy of working in the shop, when it became an obligation rather than a choice it also became an albatross around his neck.

In an attempt to lighten the very serious mood descended upon them, Mohinder suggests, "Maybe he did recognize your ability—the potential—and tried to guide you in a direction that was less destructive. He just went about it the wrong way—but good intentions."

Sylar says nothing as he focuses on his hands firmly gripping the stationary steering wheel while Mohinder's theory bumps around in his mind. It is a theory Sylar has not given much thought to before.

"He shouldn't have bothered," Sylar utters.

"Maybe not—fathers, even when motivated by the right reasons, sometimes fall short for their sons," Mohinder sounds off wistfully, looking out the open passenger window at some loudly laughing passersby.

Silently Sylar agrees while immediately recognizing the other truth. Resting his eyes on Mohinder's profile he says, "Then again had our dad's not done what they did we may never have…ended up in our current lives."

He had meant to say they may never have crossed paths, but as the words came forward the sense of closeness they suggest seem suddenly overreaching.

Still lost in thought Mohinder misses the redirect, instead continuing to take in the sights and sounds from outside the car. Sylar rests his head against the seat, still watching Mohinder.

"You were close to your family?" Sylar quietly asks but when Mohinder does not respond Sylar assumes he has not heard him.

Sylar opens his mouth to ask the question a second time when Mohinder clears his throat.

"I'm very close to my mother. Always have been. She was the rock to lean on when father ran wild with his incredible theories. She was the one who kept us together, moving forward. I try my best to still call her once a week."

Mohinder turns to look at Sylar as he continues. "You know how people talk about unconditional love?"

Sylar nods yes.

"That's my mother," Mohinder professes. "Unconditional love. It's always been so freeing and frightening at the same time. She has always wanted me to make my life my own—'the mistakes are yours to own, and so are the accomplishments; it is your life and no one else,' she would tell me—She saw how much I tried to be someone in my father's eyes, it was like pounding my head against a brick wall. I thought he saw me as a failure, never knowing what he kept hidden away. It was until you…it wasn't until he died that I could really step outside of his shadow."

The final sentiment sounds colder to Mohinder's ears than he intended. He is certainly not okay with his father's murder, but it seems to be no surprise that his own strides forward, his life purpose, came to be as a result. He has come to realize the extension of his mother's words; life is the good, the bad and what you make of it.

Again lost in thoughts of his distant home, Mohinder nearly misses Sylar's next question, one that delicately avoids the specific topic of Mohinder's father.

"What's your favourite memory of your parents?"

Mohinder smiles. Without hesitation he says, "There were a lot of nights my father worked late, and normally he ate dinner in his office. But once in awhile he would come home hungry and my mother would make his favourite meal and mine, masala eggs. Like a combination omelet or frittata it has potatoes, tomatoes, onions, jalapeno peppers, cheese, green masala, cumin all mixed together. Comfort food. And at nine or ten in the evening the three of us would sit together and eat dinner and just…talk…that was also before my father's ideas began to take a toll on him in terms of his reputation at the university. I guess it was before the beginning of the end."

"Hmmm," Sylar hums appreciatively at the warm family remembrance.

"How about your?" Mohinder inquires.

Sylar takes a moment to think before answering.

"My parents were both sticklers for eating sensibly, meaning no junk food. On weekends after dinner my dad would head back to the shop to do extra work while it was closed. Those nights right after he would leave my mom would call me into the living room to sit with her. While we watched TV she would pull out a chocolate bar she had kept hidden in a kitchen drawer and split it with me. It was our secret."

Sylar smiles and looks forward outside the front windshield.

"The thing is, those same nights, when dad arrived home, after I was already in bed, he would come into my room to say goodnight…and give me a chocolate bar he kept hidden for me at work…our little secret."

"So your manipulative nature was bred early on," Mohinder jokes.

A small laugh escapes Sylar's lips. An amused silence rests between them. Out of the corner of his eye Sylar catches Mohinder looks his way and stop himself from asking something.

"What?" Sylar asks nonchalantly.

"Pardon?" Mohinder replies.

"What were you going to ask—might as well while we're sharing."

"You've lived in New York your entire life, right?"

"Yes—well minus the random motel rooms in other states over the last few years."

"You went to school there yet you never talk about any friends. Have you always been a loner?"

"Yes," answers Sylar quickly before reconsidering. "Wait, that's not totally true. In grade school I had a best friend, Martin…Yanick was his last name I think. My mom always made me tuna fish sandwiches for lunch and his dad always made him Nutella. We'd switch. End of grade six his family moved away. High school…I had acquaintances. I didn't really…"

"Fit in?" asks Mohinder.

"I got what they were all about and it was so beneath me," Sylar explains setting his gaze back on Mohinder. "The things that consumed them were so ordinary and such a waste of time."

"But you had acquaintances?"

"In the chess club…tactical planning and the such."

"You play chess?"

"Another thing we have in common?" Sylar questions.

"If we have any other days as long as this one we should get a game going," Mohinder muses.

"Any time, any place—I'll wipe the floor with you," Sylar instigates teasingly.

"Famous last words before I school you in the art of strategic thinking," Mohinder counters, his eyes lit up with a laugh that matches his smile.

"Okay," Mohinder goes on, "So I already know you've never been Mr. Sociable…did you have any girlfriends?"

Sylar's surprise scoff prompts Mohinder to add on, "or boyfriends" to show his question is one of curiosity not condescension.

"No," Sylar admits and looks out the window to hide the embarrassment he can feel heating up his face. The blush does not come from his lack of experience but the so far unmentioned topic that this conversation will surely lead to. He can sense it only a matter of questions away.

"No Mira in my past," Sylar proceeds cautiously, referencing Mohinder's ex-girlfriend. "No boyfriends either. I never met anyone worth my time or consideration. I was interested in other things. To be with someone for the sake of fulfilling some societal expectation seems so…weak. There's no truth in it. Why waste my time?"

Mohinder contemplates the answer, sensing an unspoken admission hidden in Sylar's words. He goes over the list of people Sylar has consistently kept in touch with and only one name comes up. His. If no one is worth Sylar's time or effort, if no one is worth his consideration then why—

Mohinder's thoughts, the sequential process of which Sylar can read on his face, are interrupted by Sylar's question, trying to delay the more complex wonderings bubbling below the surface, too big for this tiny car to contain.

"I bet you had a ton of friends?"

"I had a good childhood," Mohinder reflects. "There were five of us who were thick as thieves when we were about nine years old. On Saturdays we'd sneak into the local cinema—Deepak knew how to get in through a broken alleyway door. Of course we had to sit in terrible seats near the staff door so that we could make a run for it if we were found…the times we had to run! But then between my father's work and my going off to university in England, we all grew apart."

"And in university?"

"I pretty much kept my nose in my books, trying to become brilliant and renowned so my father would show me any kind of paternal admiration. I did play tennis though and was acquainted enough to get invited to—and attend on many occasions—parties with my teammates."

"You were a jock?"

Mohinder laughs. "Hardly. Can tennis players be jocks? No, by then I'd become more a bookworm."

"An intellectual," Sylar taunts respectfully.

"A stuffy academic," Mohinder self-deprecates. "As for Mira…I had known her growing up and when I came home from university we…got reacquainted. She was someone I could lean on when my father was moving further away from the inner workings of his field, when I didn't want to burden my mother with my concerns. Mira put up with my theories that were a continuation of my father's work. But she never truly supported the work. Mira was my much-needed lifeline when I felt totally isolated. She was my comfort when I felt I deserved no one."

Mohinder looks away into the enveloping darkness splattered by the artificial beams of the streetlamps that line the road and the fluorescent signs that light the store and restaurant fronts, calling people in.

What he says next is a calculated invitation, picking up where Sylar left off minutes before.

"In terms of a connection however," Mohinder begins while bringing his steady gaze back to Sylar who is watching him closely, "I've never truly felt that with anyone…else."

The addition of the final word slams unexpectedly into Sylar like a sledgehammer.

"I had many acquaintances who never really got me and you had your timepieces that could not answer back," Mohinder notes.

From anyone else Sylar would surely find this comment audaciously rude and judgmental. From Mohinder it is more than a curious observation of two diverse lives.

"And here we are," Sylar finishes the thought.

Mohinder's intense gaze is now matched by Sylar's, second by passing second.

"Separated by half a world, very different lives and—,"

"Everything happened exactly as it needed to for us to meet…to end up here," Mohinder completes the sentiment.

Their shared look lasts longer than it is meant to on both their parts.

"Do you—," Sylar starts before dismissing his question and throwing a quizzical look out his window.

Mohinder waits to see if Sylar will give in to the thought buzzing at the back of his mind and when he does not come back to it, when Sylar purposely fixes his stare on the random faces outside of the car, Mohinder picks it up.

"Do I what?"

Sylar's eyes remain firmly on the people strolling along the opposite side of the street and the passing cars. He is certain that Mohinder must hear the deafening beat of his heart. When he looks back at Mohinder, though, there is no hint of teasing in his eyes; rather a contemplative expression faces him. Sylar looks away before turning back.

"Had circumstances been different…had it just been Mohinder Suresh and Gabriel Gray who met randomly at university or through some nine to five job…"

Mohinder's puzzled look silences Sylar.

"I'm not sure I get what you're asking? Do you mean if there was no research or powers involved?"

"Yes…" Sylar slowly agrees.

"Like an alternate universe?" Mohinder keeps questioning. He has an idea of what Sylar is trying to ask but he wants to make sure before he answers. "You're wondering what would have happened if we had met as the people we were before, without everything that has come to define us—,"

A laugh begat of relief and frustration comes from Sylar.

"You obviously know what I'm asking Mohinder! Why are you turning this into an interrogation?"

Mohinder bites his bottom lip and looks out his window. Sylar figures his outburst has chastised Mohinder but he feels too revealed by the personal question he was trying to ask to check if Mohinder is truly irritated with him now.

"I don't know," Mohinder eventually confesses.

Sylar is about to ask him if he is referring to the personal question or the one about being so wordy when Mohinder goes on.

"Honestly, it's impossible to imagine us without everything else."

Sylar, in quiet dejection, looks down at his hands.

"But…"

Surprised, Sylar's head snaps up and his eyes quickly rush over to Mohinder who is resting his head against his arm in the open window while watching him seriously.

"I think it's possible, probable even, that we might have been friends…we share interests in certain things and…"

Sylar curiously watches a playful smile creep up on Mohinder's face as if trying to break the intensity of the moment.

"I think we tolerate each other quite well."

_Tolerate._ Sylar smirks.

"Is that what we do, Mohinder?"

"Well, it's been awhile since we last tried to kill each other."

A shared smile breaks any remaining awkwardness lingering between them. Still resting his head on his hand, Mohinder closes his eyes and listens to the sounds of the city.

"It sounds like you had a fun childhood," Sylar compliments him. "Running around—sneaking around with your friends."

"Mmmmm," Mohinder mumbles and opens his eyes to look at Sylar. "But how many of them are now traveling around the world trying to stop mad men like comic book characters?"

"Just one," Sylar offers thoughtfully.

"Even though I'm normally out of my depth," Mohinder sighs.

A moment passes before Sylar says, "You do better than you give yourself credit for."

Seeing Mohinder's astounded expression Sylar sighs.

"Considering the information you had, considering the information you didn't have—you've done better than most."

"I…is that an actual compliment?" Mohinder jests.

"Don't let it go to your head," Sylar rolls his eyes, the hint of a smile on his lips. "You also manage to find trouble everywhere you go."

"I can't help it if I'm a magnet for the egomaniacal with powers to match," Mohinder drolly retaliates, but the second the words are out of his mouth wishes he had not said them.

He had not been thinking of Sylar specifically but there is a truth at their centre that still applies.

The tiny smile on Sylar's face disappears and he looks away. The sting of honesty in Mohinder's offhand remark pierces the invisible armor Sylar has, for years, successfully shrouded himself in. Alternate universes are for dreamers, Sylar broods. It is the realists who plunder the world. He briefly wonders if—

Mohinder feels no need to apologize. His comment may have temporarily derailed their conversation, but not for lack of real feelings. If who they are is this unconscionable amalgamation of extremes then this is simply another ingredient to swirl in. There serves no purpose in denying it.

The consequences are the strained pauses that come of being far too in tune with each other than they sometimes feel they have any right to be. A parade of seconds or drawn out inevitably, the silent stretch of time is never awkward. It is a personal reminder they have come to heed.

Normally willing to let the interpersonal quiet play out, this time the conversation prior is one Mohinder misses almost immediately. He cannot recall the last time he was able to sit back and just talk with someone, without calculated manipulations on hand. It this conversation is to continue Mohinder knows it is up to him to extend the olive branch.

Moving his head to rest back against the seat he raps the fingers of his right hand along the gap where the window is rolled own into the door.

"Halloween is coming."

Sylar squints his eyes with confusion but says nothing. Mohinder glances his way before setting his own eyes forward and continuing.

"It's Molly's last one—where she can dress up and go trick or treating. She wants to go as Mystique, which is a blue nightmare to recreate."

A chuckle slips from Sylar's lips and Mohinder smiles to himself.

"I tried to convince her to go as Rogue…long gloves and a white streak in her hair—so easy—but she insists on…She might end up looking like a…one of those cartoon characters. What are they called? From Belgium—,"

"Smurfs," Sylar informs him.

"Smurfs," Mohinder repeats. "Strange to be sure, but it does seem like fun. The adults in America seem to get into it as much as the children."

"Who would you go as?" Sylar asks looking at Mohinder.

"Me? I'm not dressing up," Mohinder answers fast.

A slight tilt of his head and Sylar probes. "But you must have thought about it—c'mon."

Mohinder looks pensive and admits, "Indiana Jones."

With a laugh Sylar reprimands him, "You're supposed to be something different than you are, Mohinder."

Mohinder's confusion at the comment goads Sylar to elaborate.

"A handsome professor on wild adventures around the world…that's not much of a stretch. What would you _imagine_ being?"

Mohinder hopes Sylar cannot see the slight blush he is sure is rising on his face. His serious consideration towards the question amuses Sylar.

"Vampire," Mohinder firmly pronounces.

"I'd make a comment about your fetish for puncturing skin, but I think you already know that," Sylar smirks, his eyes drawn out the window at some teenage boys shouting at each other as they jog across the street.

Mohinder twists his mouth to stifle a laugh.

"Given your religious childhood I take it you did not participate in Halloween?" Mohinder asks.

"No," Sylar replies quietly. Stretching his neck he brings his left hand to it, kneading the skin deeply to work the tension out from sitting so long.

"While everyone dressed up as werewolves or cowboys or ghosts, I was watching _Davey and Goliath_ with my mom."

The questioning look on Mohinder's face inquires Sylar to explain.

"A boy and his talking dog imparting good Christian values?"

"…"

"Never mind."

"What did you want to go as—and please don't say a god or I'll be forced to end this conversation immediately."

"Pirate," Sylar's answer comes with no hesitation.

Mohinder thinks for a moment and says, "They live by their own code and take what they want at any cost."

Sylar grimly smiles and replies, "It's the only way to live."

"Well that's just lovely. I'll be sure to teach Molly that," Mohinder sarcastically asserts.

"You worry too much about others," Sylar passively remarks.

"And you don't worry at all," Mohinder counters.

"I worry about…I look out for the…things that matter to me," Sylar tentatively divulges.

No response from Mohinder spurs Sylar to look his way.

"I know," Mohinder softly adds.

Looking to the radio clock Mohinder notices it is eleven. Knowing Anton it means he and Sylar still potentially have a few more hours to go. A nervous habit, Mohinder taps his left leg up and down rapidly while going over their conversation and the knowledge that tonight he will sit back and allow Sylar to do to Anton what years before would have been unthinkable.

Sylar's eyes distractedly go back and forth between the pub door and Mohinder's twitching leg. When he can no longer take it, Sylar mutters, "Would you relax? Your leg is like a jackhammer in my head."

"Huh? Sorry," Mohinder says, consciously stopping.

A few minutes later, however, he starts up again. Suddenly Mohinder's voice, stern in tone, declares, "Sylar!"

Staring at the two drunk men stumbling out of the pub Sylar is suddenly startled by the severe sound of his name and looks at Mohinder. The glare in Mohinder's eyes and their quick flit down to his leg silently conveys his annoyance. Sylar instantly realizes he has stopped Mohinder's leg tapping through telekinesis. Removing the invisible grip he utters, "Sorry."

"You know I don't like you using your abilities on me. It's an unacceptable deal breaker. Part of our agreement—,"

"I said sorry," Sylar cuts off Mohinder's potentially long rant with a raised voice. "It was instinctive. Do you know how irritating it is listening to you tap your leg?"

"Yes, well there are other ways of getting me to stop."

Another silence envelopes them until Mohinder's tapping leg starts up again. This time Sylar reaches across the seat and firmly places his right hand on Mohinder's thigh. Shocked, Mohinder stops. He looks over and is caught in Sylar's unwavering gaze.

Neither of them says anything, but it is not beyond their notice that although Mohinder has stopped, Sylar's hand is still very much in place grasping his leg.

For a moment, so brief that neither can say if it actually happens but real enough that both question if they would prefer to misread it, a shift occurs. The lingering look becomes contemplative in speculation while the deafening silence is riddled with deep-set words of contradictory meanings.

"Sylar," Mohinder says with a hushed voice.

"Mohinder…" Sylar's low rendering of Mohinder's name flows forth.

"Ah—Anton," stammers Mohinder, seemingly distracted.

Sylar casts a strange look his way.

With a shake of his head and his eyes looking over Sylar's shoulder, Mohinder more clearly states, "Anton…he's leaving the pub."

Sylar turns to look out the driver's window. Anton is standing in front of the pub door lighting a cigarette. Sylar lets go of Mohinder's leg and brings both his hands to the steering wheel. Wordlessly he turns the ignition and Mohinder retrieves the file from the bag at his feet.

Their mission back on track they can redirect their focus while temporarily putting off the unexpected dividend of what their words, spoken and otherwise, have wrought tonight.

At least until tomorrow. 


End file.
